


a survivor is an articulated shadow of a man

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: AU where despair never occurred, Character Study, Depression, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Hatred, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 14:13:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21447508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: mukuro ikusaba was a hollowed out figure with a grave in her heart and thorns in her chest
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	a survivor is an articulated shadow of a man

mukuro ikusaba arrived at her  _ vacant messy dirty lonely _ apartment in the evening. she didn’t know the time: the hours had fled rapidly as she walked in the cool air near her place of residence, wanting to feel anything to combat the sweat pouring down her body from the subconscious paranoia she awoke from her slumber to witness. 

she returned, locked the door, and then affirmed that she had locked the door twice after, because she can never be too cautious in a dangerous little place in a city with high population. there was constant movement outside, and she knew that she’s probably passed serial killers in the street.

(maybe gave them change, or shook their hand, or waved at them, or complimented the way their hair flew in the breeze and then shrunk in on herself because she wanted to be a nebulous memory in the vast sky, and she ran the rest of the way home with throbbing legs and a bag of groceries.)

she placed her shoes neatly on the entrance mat, considering putting on her indoor shoes before deciding that she wanted to just walk in socks today, to feel the floor under her feet, to know that she’s actually alive. she needed to feel all of it; the thrum of the earth, the heartbeat that matched her loud and too-kind neighbor, trying to convince herself that the stranger next door was not an imprint in mukuro’s memory.

a stranger is just a stranger, and that is all.

to walk to her bed, she passed the reflective glass propped up on the ground. she looked at the image being shown to her, and her breath caught in her throat--

(a laughing pin-up girl, twirling her hair and telling mukuro about the end of the world, about how they would be the catalysts and mukuro would be a tragic hero. and,  _ oh,  _ isn’t it so exciting, muku-chan? can you believe that soon, so soon, we will be dust and platinum? a smiling girl with an apathetic glint in her eye as she puts a high heel on a skinny chest-- more like a cage-- and  _ oh,  _ isn’t it so  _ despairing,  _ how if you squint, the two girls look the same?)

_ no  _ mukuro shivered away from the mirror, averting her gaze and wrapping her jacket tighter around herself.  _ you aren’t her. you were never her.  _

it’s hard to convince herself of that. junko had  _ reveled _ in the fact that they were twins, excited by the promise of despair and tragedy simply lurking since their births. mukuro had adjusted to being a tool; the uglier and dumber version of her little sister. she was a poorly written prequel with an unwell composition. though she was never bred to match junko’s analytical talent or sweet charisma, they matched somewhat in power, and a bit of makeup made them identical.

(they didn’t match power, not really, because mukuro is weak with survivor’s guilt cloaking her, and if she was truly strong, she would die for the plan. she would fall to despair. but if despair kills the strong and leaves behind the weak, mukuro supposed she  _ did  _ lose to the sickening beliefs of her sister. so is she strong? or is she weak, frail, fragile?)

junko planned things out thoroughly, molding mukuro to match her image and deceive everyone. she would be junko’s corpse, cask, and shroud; something to step out of during metamorphosis, becoming a butterfly with more resemblance to a wasp. it was a plan with no faults, because the world is inane and pathetic, and nobody could unveil the thoughts and decisions of junko. 

that was a psychology mukuro adjusted to: nobody could defeat her sister. or so she thought.

part of junko’s power was her sadism, her apathy towards everything that isn’t despair. she would always taunt mukuro for her earthly attachments and how easily mukuro fell in love. she recalls three loves, varying in severity and obsession, each destroyed in mukuro’s mind by the words of her sister. junko had nothing she cared about, not even her family.

(that may be the most painful part of it all: mukuro still loved the idea of her little sister, but the outline was filled with darkness and twisted ink, leaving mukuro with family obligation and turning junko’s love to dust. junko once said mukuro was obsessed with her, following her trail like a puppy. the elder sister wished she could tell her that there are other emotions besides love and lust; obsession and despair. somewhere, there is patience and nostalgia and reminiscence. but she knew she couldn’t convince her sister otherwise.)

mukuro glanced at the mirror again, wincing at the sight of pale skin, mottled freckles, a skeletal body. she can almost feel the imprint of defined curves in the mirror, a slightly larger tummy and longer, luscious hair. it’s enough for mukuro to wish her body gone, to be something negligible. she didn’t want to be a vessel. she wanted to be mundane.

mukuro spoke to others, once, who told their own tales of possession and love and  _ what’s with people and sisters? _ korekiyo shinguji, who spoke of his life like a folktale, lacking a moral and twisted in archaic twine, binding him to a body he has destroyed but his sister finds comfort in. therapists can’t get him to step out of her shadow because shadows follow him everywhere anyways. he cited it as the reason he prefers the dark, cloudy nights. mukuro didn’t disagree.

she also met rantaro amami, a happier barely-adult who tells stories about his travels, leaving enough vacant space to breathe and answer questions about his companions. many sisters adventured the world with him. none returned. his mirror and estate are empty, and it’s almost sad to think that so many are plagued by memories, while he must remain as himself, a person whose self-loathing flickers in his forest eyes. mukuro pondered mercy, and if he was ever granted any. she resolved the question unanswered. 

some she met during her healing had little to do with sisters but  _ everything _ to do with cracked hearts. mikan tsumiki was found in psychiatric case files, a horror story for those oblivious (though she claimed her friends were all on the crazy side). mikan explained herself in choppy thoughts, apologies frequent and sudden bursts of wrath expected. there was nothing inside of her, but she would suddenly embrace herself and declare that she had a beloved, someone who understood her and would forgive her for her sins. it made mukuro think of junko and despair. 

her and mikan don’t talk much.

there were others. ryoma hoshi, who was so much of nothing that he could only think of nothing. it was less that he was tormented-- his thoughts were long locked away-- but he never made any goals or plans. there was nothing at the end for him, and it made mukuro want to shake him and scream  _ you have to save yourself _ but it felt a little like she’s the one trembling while he kicked the dirt on the ground and sighed. shuichi saihara made her think of wilted flowers - he is a filled in copy of  _ depression depression depression _ , and they can’t meet each other’s eyes. an awkward square dance with two left feet and shaking arms, she determined.

peko pekoyama would be an amazing friend, mukuro thought, if her devotion to her master (read: her love) was more clearly healthy, because mukuro was filled with so much ineptitude when trying to discern if something will destroy someone or maintain them. her friend sonia nevermind is filled with so much duty and honor and it’s fucking terrifying how many people are tied to something or nothing at all. 

there were many that mukuro could reach out to with a single call, but she refused to extend beyond formalities, as she had always been told that she lived for the thrilling moment of despair and nothing else. maybe that’s why she’s so locked in depression and trauma. 

huh.

mukuro tried to stumble back to bed, her legs tangling with part of the duvet that was thrown to the floor and causing her to trip into her pillows. she rearranged herself and laid down, staring at the ceiling and pretending that the peeling paint was a little more like a secret unravelling than just some yellow fucking paint. 

(mukuro once met a girl, small and young with an eerie kind of energy, who told her she’d make a good painter. she spoke of how creativity flows into her from her god, and how it keeps her constantly creating. when she saw mukuro’s suspicion turn to dislike, she had asked the soldier if she was a believer. the hesitant nod she received prompted the pious girl to speak, her expression shifting to pitiful melancholy as she remisced on all the times where inspiration ran dry, and there was  _ nothing _ for her, like she is empty without her god, and mukuro ran away and resolved to never take that fucking street because there was  _ nothing  _ there other than a teenager praying and waiting for someone to hear her call.)

her phone buzzed beside her, and she jumped out the sound. she used to never leave her phone on, because nobody ever texted her except the people she wanted to avoid. the people she would refuse to reply to because she needed a minute to pretend that things are okay, a second to breathe. so why was her phone on?

it was a notification from her email, something about new music from spotify. she released the breath she was holding and closed the phone, remembering to silence it this time.

_ nobody is texting you. you pushed them away, remember? you left them on read and they have better things to do than wait around for your  _ ** _lazy ass_ ** _ - _

mukuro recoiled under the thin covers. fuck. the voice in her head sounded familiar, like rose perfume that smells far too strong or extremely artificial snacks, to the point that it’s just sugar and you decide you don’t like sugar anymore.

(she ate dark chocolate.)

_ don’t let her into your head, _ mukuro scoffed at her anxiety, because this was routine and it’s been a very long time since mukuro had slept well. the hardly dreams, which had a silver lining of no nightmares but there’s still this sadness knowing she can’t sleep long enough to actually allow her subconscious to form twisted images, with mangled eyes and scarred limbs. still, in vain, mukuro closed her eyes and resigned her courage as memories spawn in the darkness.

(all the bad her sister had done, all the evil that mukuro couldn’t unravel and fix, flickered and glowed. mukuro recalled the crimes of her family more than she reminisced about her own sins.)

mukuro was as alive as the corpse intertwined with her soul, and she repented in her melancholic reverence and repeated pleas of:

_ i am me _

_ i am alive _

despite nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> writer's block amirite ladies.
> 
> um. leave a comment if you want. i don't have much to say. have a nice day, sleep well, and stay hydrated. it's important.


End file.
